Hand in Hand
by illyria-pffyffin
Summary: A vignette taking place on the day of Frodo's parents' funeral. What can Bilbo do for his grieving cousin, who stoutly refused the comfort offered by various relatives?


**_Hand-in-hand_**

**__**

"If there's anything we can do…" one after another they came and said the same words, the same unfinished sentence, over and over. They patted his hand, his hair, his shoulders. They held him, and turned away sniffling, dabbing at their noses and eyes. "Poor dear, poor dear," they muttered as they left him.  
  
And he stood there, grim and solemn in his crisp ochre-colored suit and richly brocaded waistcoat more befitting a party than a funeral. But why would a child of twelve have proper mourning clothes, only to wear them on his own parents' funeral? It was too soon. Too soon.  
  
His eyes were clear, glittering like the sun-dusted surface of the river which had taken away his life and those of his parents. He was pale and the dark circles under his eyes spoke of a sleepless vigil. He already looked too old to be twelve.  
  
"Thank you," he said, quietly and firmly. "I will." He wrapped his arms around the shoulders of the ladies who stooped to smother him in their frilly shawls as they embraced him. Above the folds of the shawls I could see his eyes peering. They were dry, calm, too bright, too empty.  
  
"Be a good lad now and don't go around giving your uncles and aunts a headache." (They're all you have now that your parents are gone.)  
  
"I won't. I promise. Thank you for coming, cousin." (I know that. You don't have to keep reminding me)  
  
"Come to The Smials for Yule. We're having fireworks and sledding. You'll love it there." (It will help you forget.)  
  
"I will, if Uncle Rory permits me. Thank you for the offer." (But I don't want to forget.)  
  
"Take good care of yourself. Eat well and get enough sleep. They help." (You will get over this.)  
  
"I'm sure they do. Thank you, auntie." (I don't know if I can.)  
  
It seemed wrong for a young boy to appear so poised and calm on the day of his parents' funeral. It seemed wrong for a boy of _twelve_ to appear so poised and calm. Where was that boy who took my hand excitedly and led me on a tour to visit favorite brooks and springs and woods, proudly showing where the birds built their nests and the dew-sprinkled spider webs were laces of diamonds? Where was that boy who taught me the meaning of missing another's laughter, the boy who changed my initial belief that children were pure nuisance packaged in a misleading illusion of sweetness?  
  
It was almost horrifying to see the impassive look on his face when he stood beside the open graves of his parents, scattering flowers on instructions, to all appearances bored with the whole procession. Where was that boy who hid behind the door to gleefully tackle his father the minute he stepped into the smial, the boy who giggled fiercely when he wrestled Drogo Baggins on the rug in the parlor? How many times had I heard Primula singsong, "Who's my little baby boy?" and seen her young son leap up to hug and kiss her, laughingly replying, "I am, Mother! I'm your little baby boy!" Where was that boy now? Where was that smiling child whose eyes used to speak, nay, sing his heart to the world?  
  
I looked at the Thain's coach around which a horde of relatives were clustering. When everyone had left, what would happen to him, this orphan of the river? Had he fully understood the consequences of what had happened? Had he fathomed what lay in wait for him beyond today? Or was he still refusing to believe? Was he shutting everything beneath that veneer of calm that bordered on indifference?  
  
For a while, even with all the hobbits around him, a gaggle of aunts, uncles, and cousins chattering while waiting for their coaches, he looked utterly alone, forsaken. I strode to his side, wondering what I could do for this boy who denied every comfort, even the grief that he so desperately needed. He gave me a very formal, "It's good to see you again, Cousin Bilbo. Thank you for coming" when I arrived yesterday, without the hug, without the incessant barrage of questions and boyish reports that usually welcomed me. "I am very sorry, Frodo," I said to him, suddenly at a loss for word in the face of so deliberate a rebuttal from someone so young, so lost. "Thank you, Cousin Bilbo," he rejoined. "I truly appreciate it." Was that how a twelve-year old supposed to speak? Where was the Frodo Baggins I had known and loved? This was a strange boy standing beside me, close enough for me to easily touch, yet I hesitated to even put my hand on his shoulder. How trite that gesture would have seemed to him after the onslaught of hugging and kissing aunts, I found myself thinking. How could I reach for him across so vast a distance that he had stubbornly keep between himself and everyone who loved him? My fingers twitched beside me, so frustratingly helpless and thwarted. A sudden stab of longing made me move my hand to the coat pocket where I kept my ring.  
  
Something small and cold slid into my half-raised hand, and I froze. Without looking down I could sense that it was someone's hand. Frodo's hand. His clammy fingers gripped and tugged weakly at mine _panic fear_ and went limp _trust relief_ when my hand closed protectively around them _safe you are safe I am here._  
  
I cleared my throat and looked at the lad, finding the same inscrutable look on his face, still gazing straight ahead. "I'm feeling rather peckish, Frodo," I began, and he turned to peer at me with his cold, hollow eyes. "Would you show me the way to the nearest pantry, please? I'm afraid I will never be able to solve this great maze of a smial and I can't very well think on an empty stomach."  
  
A polite, obliging smile that faded before it banished the shadows in his eyes. "Of course, Cousin," he said. "This way."  
  
He said nothing as we went through the door and I started to chatter about goblins chasing me and my companions through the dark alleys underneath the mountains. Then he turned and I found myself in a dimly lit passage, which, unlike the ones we passed before, was completely deserted.  
  
He stopped, his hand twitching anxiously in mine.  
  
"Frodo?" I inquired gently as I knelt before him.  
  
"They're not coming back." His face was hidden in the shadows, but there was no mistaking the note of anguish and confusion in that strained, little voice. "I'm scared."  
  
I reached out and my hands came to rest on the trembling form of the little hobbit before me. Two small hands alighted on the lapels of my jacket, then he leaned in and buried his face in my shoulder, and he began to cry.  
  
I could not remember anything more sorrowful than the broken sobs of a grief-stricken child. When a voice more suited to singing and laughing spoke of despair, it was as though a veil had been drawn across the sun and the world would forever be too dark, too cold for joy to live. My tears fell on his hair as I wept with him, mourning his cruel, and untimely loss of innocence.  
  
I did not know how long we sat there on the floor, my arms around him as I held him fiercely against me, wishing I could shield him from more pain and fear. When the darkness was lifted from my mind, I could see again the sloping walls that glowed reddish-brown in the candle light limning the tear-streaked face that lay, eyes closed, on my breast. It was no longer the face of a stranger, but a child's; a child I knew and loved. A murmur of noises came from afar: people talking, children screaming, a laugh, a yell, but I only noticed the sound of the lad breathing, deeper now, more even. I fished a handkerchief out of my pocket and dabbed my face with it before offering it to Frodo. He took the handkerchief and, sitting up, wiped his face and blew his nose.  
  
"I'm sorry," he said, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm afraid I've just ruined your beautiful handkerchief," he said ruefully, looking at the damp cloth in his hand, before meeting my eyes with the bravest attempt at smiling on his lips.  
  
"It's all right," I ventured to smile myself. "I always carry more than one since I came back from the adventure. You can keep it for now. Never go anywhere without a handkerchief, Frodo. Remember that."  
  
He smiled and folded the handkerchief neatly, then suddenly leaned forward and kissed me softly on the cheek. "Thank you," he said simply.  
  
Stunned, I gazed at him, at the first glimmering of that familiar glow in his eyes, the beacon that drew me to him from the moment I first saw him, a frowning child listening to my tale; a gleam of delight, dream, desire flaring bright in his dark eyes, echoing the look I saw on my reflection in the mirror. His smile was shy, uncertain, but his eyes were no longer the locked and barred gates to what was still roiling, chafing and burning inside him. I could see that he was still in pain, but that he had allowed me to notice that at all was a change that I found reassuring. He stood up. "Are you still hungry?" he asked with a touch of apology and a trace of his usual mischief.  
  
"Yes, I am," I said, and along with my voice I gathered and reassembled my composure, rising from the floor and adjusting my jacket. "Ravenous."  
  
"So am I," he said. "Come on. I know where Cook keeps the cakes for tea."  
  
We walked side by side toward the end of the passageway, his hand in mine.  
  
fin 


End file.
